


Shattered the Moonlight

by Hoothootmotherf_ckers



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, The Raven's Roost Rebellion, This is very very sad, and there is DEATH, and what could have happened, how it could have ended even sadder than it did, retelling of poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16313513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoothootmotherf_ckers/pseuds/Hoothootmotherf_ckers
Summary: It was bold, even reckless, of him to come into town. The cover of clouded night was not enough to disguise him, and the Governor’s men had placed a bounty on his head. But the Renegade was, above all else, a protector. He would not abandon the ones he loved, even at great risk to himself. Which is why this night, this tarnished silver sky, saw his approach to the home of a carpenter, and the smithy that lay beside.---A retelling of "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes, and how the Raven's Roost Rebellion could have ended.





	Shattered the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weevilo707](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weevilo707/gifts).



The moon shone dimly through the shifting clouds over Raven’s Roost. Soughing winds blew shadows across the cliffs, leaving just enough light for the faint reflection of a pale stone road. And from this road, the faint patter of hooves could be heard as the Renegade came riding, more subtle than a shadow, up to the door of the carpenter’s home.

His hair shone a dark copper in the moonlight, casting shadows across his face. Thus obscured, he could be mistaken for an average citizen of the town, in his tattered coat of claret and sturdy workman’s clothes. But too distinctive was the gleaming axe that lay by his side, peeking out from beneath his coat. For that axe, glowing bronze in the moonlight, was the signature weapon of Magnus Burnsides, the Renegade, leader of the Rebellion.

It was bold, even reckless, of him to come into town. The cover of clouded night was not enough to disguise him, and the Governor’s men had placed a bounty on his head. But the Renegade was, above all else, a protector. He would not abandon the ones he loved, even at great risk to himself. Which is why this night, this tarnished silver sky, saw his approach to the home of a carpenter, and the smithy that lay beside.

Quiet as a falling leaf, he tapped gently on the shuttered smithy doors, but received no answer. A little louder, now, and he knocked on the door of the home of the carpenter, whistling a short, three note tune. With a whispering creak, the second floor window swung open, and there she stood. Julia, daughter of the carpenter, with strong arms and night-black hair, looked down at the Renegade and smiled as brightly as the coming dawn. 

The Renegade looked up at her, starry eyed and smiling. But he was not the only one watching this scene, sheltered by the dark. For from the looming shadows of the smithy, the smith’s apprentice glared. His eyes shone with an anger, a hatred, out from his bone-white face, for his mind was consumed with jealousy. He obsessed over Julia, the carpenter’s daughter, with her smiling eyes and inky hair. So from the shadows he watched, and he heard what transpired that dark night.

Julia called down, with a quiet laugh, “Hello, you wayfaring stranger, what brings you to town this gloomy eve?”

The Renegade smiled back from atop his oak-brown mount. “I am here on a twofold task - first, to confer and plan, for tomorrow we take back the toll-bridge. No longer shall travelers be robbed of their savings just to pass through. But for this, I need my partner, the leader of the insurgence in town, for no-one know the movements of the tyrant’s men better than she.” 

Julia, the carpenter’s daughter, the Revolutionary, grinned down at the Renegade. “I think I may know a few places to start. Take this letter, and keep it safe, for in it you’ll find the weekly shift-changes and movements of the toll-bridge’s wardens. Strike at night, under cover of dark, and my rebels will do what we can to help.” 

The Renegade reached up and took the folded paper, fingertips just brushing Julia’s. Holding the letter to his chest, he said, “I shall take you advice to heart. Wait for me by tomorrow’s moonlight, and we shall strike together.” 

“It will be done. And your second task, dear chivalrous rebel?” she responded with a light in her eyes. 

“I had hoped for a kiss from the bravest woman in town, to send me on my way with luck,” he said, ducking his head as if suddenly shy.

“I cannot descend the steps, for fear of awaking those who would do us ill, but here’s a paltry replacement in a kiss’s stead.” Julia reached down out of her window, clasping hands with the Renegade. As she did, her raven hair unwound from its ribboned constraints, cascading down toward the Renegade and filling the night air with a scent of wood-shavings and smoke.

They stood there for a moment, Renegade and Revolutionary, hand in hand. But the night is short, and the danger great, so soon the Renegade must ride off into the greying night, and Julia lock her shutters against the sunrise.

The smith’s apprentice skulked off into the dawning light, toward the center of town and the Governor’s household.

 

The day passed slowly, messages sent and answered, and as the sun dipped yet again all was in place for the night’s assault. But before the moon could rise and plans commence, a troop of the Governor’s men came marching, two by two with weapons in hand, up to the carpenter’s door. 

They didn’t ask questions or request entry, instead breaking down the hand-built door. Chairs were smashed, the carpenter pulled bodily from the residence to a place unknown. Julia, the carpenter’s daughter, the Revolutionary, was led at spear-point up the stairs of her family home. Once at the top, she turned on them, kicking and fighting with all the strength she could muster. She pulled a dagger from her dress, slashing one soldier, spraying crimson blood across the white-painted walls. He collapsed to the ground, but two more men took his place. She was overpowered, dagger wrested away, shoved into a wall while her hands were bound. 

She was bound standing at the window, the same she had stood at the night before. A cloth had been placed in her mouth, so as to prevent her from screaming, to prevent her from warning her love away. Secured at her side was a loaded crossbow, bolt aimed straight for her heart. The soldiers of the Governor had tied it there, laughing all the while. Two of the men remained, crouched by the sides of the window frame. Out of sight of the road, the pale gleaming road that reflected the last of the setting sun. The road that, by moonlight, her Renegade would ride. 

She stood there, watching, waiting, for an interminable time. But she was not idle, not a damsel waiting for a rescue. Out of sight of her captors, she fought her bonds, twisting and pulling at the rough rope. Soon her wrists were wet with sweat and blood, but she daren’t stop. She could not stop, because the moon had begun to peek over the horizon and now, any moment, her Renegade would ride to her door.

So she struggled, hours and hours yielding her centimeters of movement. And as the clock-tower in town struck midnight, she reached her goal. One finger, just barely, touched the trigger of the crossbow. She rested then, all but one hand. She had what she needed, but could not act as of yet, and she didn’t dare alert her guards. The moonlight shone ever brighter, sending bright beams spearing through clouds to the road below. 

And then, she heard it. The gentle clatter of hoofs, the rhythm of a horse hurried, but not afraid. For why would it be? The Renegade knew of his mission, and had little to fear from it. He could not know of the ambush that lay in wait. 

Over the crest of the hill, along the cliff-side road, the Renegade came riding. His red coat glowed in the moonlight, his figure noble and fierce. High above, from their shadowed positions, the Governor’s men took aim. Julia stood tall, silhouetted against that damned window, and breathed deep.

He came closer, ever closer, until he was nearly within range of their bows. And then, as his gaze lifted to the opened window, the Revolutionary took action. Her hand, just freed enough, found purchase on the crossbow’s trigger. She could not speak, so she whispered a goodbye in her head - a farewell, a confession, a plea. And then she pulled the trigger.

There was a spray of blood and she collapsed where she stood, pierced through the heart by her own hand. The Renegade stopped in his tracks, wheeling about on the stone road. Behind him, soldiers sprang into motion, leaping from their shelters to take aim at his retreating form, but they could not strike in time. Arrows clattered against the stone behind him, louder than the clicks of his racing hoofbeats. He did not know who had been in that window, not yet, but he had recognized a clear warning. Julia had saved him, kept his life with her death. 

The Renegade fled, far from the town and what had happened that night. He found refuge in a town to the south, and stayed the night at a quiet inn. It was not until morning that the news reached him - the young innkeep, over breakfast, told him the story that had passed her way. How Julia, the carpenter’s daughter, had been captured by cruel soldiers. How Julia, the Revolutionary, had died to protect her love. 

His face went grey, ashen with grief and horror, and he levied a cry at the sky that shook the trees. Then he was out, back on his horse, racing for the town where he had, unknowingly, lost his love. His horse’s hooves tore up the pale road, chips of stone flying into the air as he thundered by. His blood-red coat flapped behind him as he rode, and as the town crested over the hill, he unholstered his gleaming axe. 

He charged into town unthinking, unseeing, wanting only to avenge his Revolutionary, his Julia. He passed the gates, the smithy, the carpentry, uncaring of screams and cries around him. He burst toward the Governor’s mansion, mind filled only with vengeance and grief. The Renegade was determined to destroy the ones responsible for this atrocity and he was nearly there, his goal in sight. 

And an arrow, fired from a nearby rooftop, caught him in the throat. One, two, dozens more followed, and the man slumped off his horse inelegantly, life draining from his body. The animal reared, shrieked, left him on the pavement there, alone. His red coat pooled around him, joined by the darker stain of blood. He breathed once, twice, reached out an arm for the brass-bladed axe that had fallen beside him. It fell just short, and then he breathed no more. 

 

It’s said that some nights, nights with a silver-tarnished sky and a wind as smooth as a whisper, a sound can be heard from the silver road spanning the cliffs. A clatter of hooves, a glint of bronze usher a Renegade into the night-dark town. He ghosts over the cobblestones and at the door of a home that was once a carpenter’s, the wind seems to whistle a three-note tune. And in the window, she can be seen.

Julia, the carpenter’s daughter. Julia, the Revolutionary, with night-black hair and a smile as bright as the dawn, a gleaming dagger clasped in her hand.


End file.
